


Merry Christmas John Watson

by katiebelikov (captainkatieb)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas time at Baker Street, John likes to decorate, M/M, Sherlock is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkatieb/pseuds/katiebelikov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas time at Baker Street. Something Sherlock has been trying to ignore since the decorations started appearing around London. But maybe this year, he might just have a reason to celebrate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Christmas John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> This was a Tumblr Secret Santa present for the very love Sami. Posting here for all to see. It's the first, and so far only, fic I have done from Sherlock's POV.

A presence. Dim awareness that there was someone standing over me. Don’t move. Lay still, keep my breathing steady. A gentle weight settles on my head. Soft. Something made of cloth. Approximately the size of a hat. Feel John move to the other end of the sofa. Confused. John lifts my feet, sits and places them on his lap. His hand draws absent circles on my ankle.

Television switches on, volume soft. Make out the sound of a choir. Something familiar. Not important. Important is John. Still can’t work out his plan. Keep eyes shut. Drift back to sleep.

Wake. It’s dark. Glance at the window. Early morning. 4am. Too early. Look down. John still under my feet. Head leaning back against the couch, mouth open. One arm hanging off the sofa. Other still curled around my ankle. Flex my foot tentatively. Hand closes tighter. Okay. Moving not an option.

Phone flashing from the floor. Might be out of my reach. Investigate.

Definitely out of my reach. Now on the floor, one ankle still on the sofa. John still asleep. Pick up my bow. Reach out and try and pull it towards me. Succeed enough to stretch and grasp it. Text.

 _Merry Christmas. Try not to break anything in your desire to be a scrooge. Dr Watson has gone to a surprising amount of effort. And look at your head._

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

My phone vibrates.

 _Language, Sherlock._

I throw the phone away. It lands at the base of a twelve-foot tall Christmas tree. A tree that was definitely not in that location yesterday. A Christmas tree complete with glowing lights, baubles, tinsel and a gold star.

Shocked. Notice rest of flat. Tinsel across the drapes and doorways. A Santa hat and lights on the skull. Mistletoe above the kitchen. Holly on the mantelpiece. An absurdly large collection of toy reindeer lined up across the bench. Good god.

Twisting around I look up at John. Notice the fallen hat slipping off the sofa. In the shape of a Christmas tree. Raise one hand to my own head. Pull it off. Matching. Smile anyway. Forget to be annoyed.

Attempt to get back onto couch without waking John. Discovery, not possible. John, bliking from his sleepy state.

“Sherlock?” His voice. Broken with sleep. “W-why are you down there.”

Petulant. “You have my foot captive.”

John looks down, notices his hand. Lets go. I move my foot, wincing as the circulation flows again.

“You could have woken me.”

“Didn’t want to.”

Remain lying on the floor. John stands, stretches before walking into the kitchen.

“Tea?”

“John. It’s 4am. And you’re asking about tea.”

Hear rather than see John’s shrug. Sigh. Still don’t move. Contemplate what to do next. Interrogate John as to the origins of the decorations? Not yet. Talk to John? Good course. Don’t think of other thoughts. Catches a look under the tree. Presents.

Fuck.

Present for John.

Jump up, run to the bedroom. Dresses. Leave hat on head. Ignores John’s call. Slams front door behind me. Calls an apology to Mrs Hudson in case she is awake. Registers it’s cold. Realises I left my gloves behind. Also recalls it’s four am. Didn’t think this through. That’s new. Thoughts about John clouding other thoughts? Changing the way I think? Distraction? Yes. Bad distraction? No.

I walk through London. It’s quiet. True quiet of that time when everyone is asleep. I sigh and turn towards the curb, finally acknowledging the car driving slowly next to me. Sent by Mycroft, but not Mycroft. That assistant he carries around. Anthea she calls herself. Still haven’t worked out her name, despite nagging Mycroft. Not important right now.

The window rolls down, a voice floats out.

“Get in. I want my bed, and you are holding me up.”

I half think about turning around. But I’m losing feeling to my fingers and toes and think better of it. Sigh, open the passenger door and sit. Warmth. Hope she doesn’t expect me to talk. Check the time. 5am. Think of John. Of my phone on the floor of Baker Street. Can’t text. Still no present. Not. Panicking. Do I ask? I hesitate before turning to look and ask a question. She stops me before I can.

“Bag on the back seat.”

I nod my thanks. Turn to look and pick up the bag. Small. A box inside. Open box. Stare at it.

Mind blank.

 

Recover.

Perfect.

“I trust you can work out the rest.”

Look up at her. “What?”

“You’re not an idiot Sherlock. But you were out in London, no gloves, at 4 in the morning on Christmas Day. You’ll work it out.”

The car stops. Baker Street. Light on inside. John’s still up. Take the box and place it in an inside pocket. Fumble for my key before getting it into the lock. Open. Close. Lean against the door. Sit. Hold head in hands.

Why.

Why am I feeling this? I’ve never bothered about Christmas. Never even thought. Why John. Why. Whywhywhy. Why.

Hear a shuffle and creak of the stairs. Look up. John.

Tea cup in his hand. He walks over to me, crouches down, pulls my head to meet his eyes. Keeps his hand in my hair. New sensations. Can’t deny that I’ve wondered what this felt like. Results. Feels nice. Okay to repeat the experience.

“Sherlock.”

Soft voice registers. Hint of worry, undertones of affection. Exasperation. Blink. Focus on John. Tea cup now on the floor, other hand on my shoulder. Lean forward and wrap my arms around John. Automatic reaction. John jumps. Relaxes before wrapping his arms around me.

Moment. Unsure how long. Doesn’t register.

Eventually John gets me to stand. Forgets the tea cup. Pushes me up the stairs and into the kitchen. Pulls a chair around and sits in front of me.

“Want to explain?”

I shake my head. I can’t.

“Okay then. Want me to?”

Pause. Puzzled. What does John know that I don’t? John takes that as a yes.

“Christmas was always special for me. A family occasion. At least until Mum died. Then it became who could fake it the best. We’d try and ignore Dad’s alcoholism. His intolerance of Harry’s choice in partners. It didn’t feel like a family any more. Then I left. I didn’t see the point in celebrating a family occasion on my own any more.”

I don’t move. John has my attention. Enraptured with his words.

“Afghanistan. Well. We tired. Then here. I – I know you don’t celebrate Christmas. Mycroft told me. Warned me against it actually.”

The bastard. Mentally compose text message to send later.

“But. You. You’re safe and well, the only family I have. And I don’t want that to change. I think you know what I mean. I hope you do. I’m not too sure what I will do if you don’t.”

Brain functioning slowly. Can’t process.

“I think you’ve felt it too. That there’s something more there. I. I can’t keep you out of my head, Sherlock, and I don’t want to try. I’ve been doing that for months. It hasn’t worked. Don’t say anything. I know you’re married to your work. I just. Though. If I can say it at Christmas when can I say it?”

He looks at me then. An intense stare. I’m frozen. Working it out. Not sure how long I sit there. Blank look. Sudden realisation. John. John is my thoughts. Christmas. 4am. Present. WHY. John. Think. Yes. Hesitate. No. Yes. Now.

Lean forward and kiss John. Feel his lips slowly part under mine. His hand comes forward to once again land in my hair. Sigh. Draw him closer. Ignore the need for air until I can’t any more. Lean back ever so slightly. Breath John’s breath. I want all of it. John. Mine.

We sit there, a slightly smile on my face. A grin on his. A thought.

“I’m a horror to live with.”

A chuckle from John.

“Been there, done that.”

“And I don’t do this. Ever.”

“I’m aware.”

“I will mess up. More so than anyone else.”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

Pause.

“Anthea was right.”

“Anthea?”

“Whatever she calls herself.”

Dig in my pocket. Pull out the box before handing it to John. Watch as he opens it. Picks it up and turns it gently in his hands. A pocket watch with a simple engraving around the back.

 _To. John H. Watson. Yours. SH._


End file.
